Cry Frozen Tears
by millie1211
Summary: She's always known that he's able to save her. D/E
1. Cry Frozen Tears

**I feel like so much of D/E is unexplored. This is shameless drabble, something I felt like I just _had _to write. **

**I do not own anything, and I'm not so sure what caused me to think of the title. I guess we'll see ;)**

**So please enjoy, and I beg you guys to not favorite or story/author alert without reviewing. **I do want to get some constructive criticism ;) ****

_When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears_

_When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears_

_And I held your hand through all of these years_

_But you still have all of me_

My Immortal – Evanescence

There comes a day when she realizes that her world now depends on tears. There comes an hour when she realizes that she's drowning; slowly, but it's coming. There comes a minute when she realizes that an "epic love story" is always doomed for failure.

So she just lets herself drown in love. She lets herself drown in pity, in hope – hope destined for _nothing –_and barely a week goes by before she feels like she's already tipped a hundred and eighty degrees. So she blocks it out some more - she blocks out her demons, her sorrows, her past beliefs.

(She blocks out the man in the leather jacket; the man who has kept her standing all these months.)

She doesn't know why she's doing all this; she doesn't know why she hasn't even gotten her ass up and started looking for answers. She doesn't have a clue why she has cried herself to sleep every night this past week and she has done nothing to solve the problem that got her in sobs in the first place.

(Part of her is scared of what she might find if she does.)

She lets all the tears go down in the drain simply because they're able to. She lets the days flow by because for her, time carries on. She lets herself muse and wonder and fantasize; imagining a life where you don't live for time, but clearly, you live for no purpose. You live for blood, for lack of emotion.

(Clearly, it's a life that's not for her.)

His face has become such a familiarity now – he just lingers in the corners of shapeless rooms, watching her, those eyebrows furrowed. She likes to think that he's listening into her thoughts, listening to her heartbeat, tending to her fears. He tries talking to her sometimes; he brings up topics that don't want to be discussed, topics that need to be forgotten. Topics that involve her lips and his lips and a bed too comfortable for both of them. And ironically, topics that haven't gotten off her mind since they occurred.

He's tried holding her, soothing her, bringing her out to places that don't depict her mood at all. He's been a block, someone who has come so far from who he originally was. She doesn't refrain him – she instead pretends that it's no big deal. She tries so hard to mask the fact that she is so, so thankful.

(She's always been thankful of him.)

Weeks start to trudge by, and still, she is broken. She's been torn, cut, shredded; those pieces of her heart so long gone, so carefully hidden, sealed and sent away like horcruxes. People start to worry; people start to notice. Bonnie demands that Elena is to be watched at all times. Caroline throws slumber parties on a daily basis – a part of Elena's wardrobe thrives in Caroline's clothing. Even Jeremy, her poor, precious little brother, starts to notice. She's always been able to hold a strong face for him – after all, she's put him through enough. She preserves that plastic smile only for him that now, whenever she sees him, it's a natural instinct. She can only keep that up so much longer.

"This house is so big," she thinks aloud one day, maybe a few weeks later, when skies are getting only slightly bluer and the fog is starting to only slightly clear. They're at the Salvatore mansion (the only piece _he's_left behind) and she's pouring through the Gilbert journal, perhaps for the fifth of sixth time. Her ancestor has always had a knack for writing. The words are so beautiful, so full of truth but so distant that they've returned to just a jumble, a series of letters she comprehends but cannot fathom, cannot take to heart. It's like deciphering song lyrics – you fall into them with pride only to come out confused and clueless. Damon is opposite her, his smile upturned, his face drawn into his glass. She's not actually sure what he's doing. She's never sure, she realizes – it's one of the most puzzling, most dashing, most _wonderful_ things about him. She always has to play the guessing game, and _boy_ does she enjoy it.

He doesn't reply, but the answer lingers between them, clear as the bags under her eyes are, clear as the sweat that trickles down his face because of restlessness. She sucks in a breath, unsure of whether or not she ought to talk, to _rephrase_ that statement she has only just made.

She settles for silence instead.

(After all, he reads through her so well.)

_This house is too big for the two of us._

_Without Stefan._

He arches an eyebrow, as if he has just heard her head speaking. This silence between them – it's so comforting, yet inevitably _wrong_ and just needs to be broken. There's so much to be said, so many phrases out there lingering and getting eaten up by the wind.

(Part of her knows, though, that they understand each other best when no words are spoken at all.)

She thinks that perhaps her relationship with Stefan has always been built on exchange of words, while with Damon it's reading between all that; it's like filling up the voids, settling on an understanding that words can't reach. She's not sure which one she likes more – it's obviously easier with Stefan, like taking a deep breath and letting everything out. With Damon it's more like sucking in and letting some of it get stuck inside.

(It's part of the reason why she can't open up to him.)

"Are you thankful, Damon?"

She doesn't know why she's asking him this. It's the first thing she's said in weeks that's directed _at_him, rather than around him. Perhaps she feels the need to push him, to twist him round a bit, just because she hasn't slept in forty-eight hours and her mind needs some refreshing. She wants to straighten him out, to get to the bottom, even though she's already sinking below it.

"For what?" he puts on an innocent face, his voice dripping with snark.

(She notices the drop of exasperation lining in his voice.)

"That you're alive, Damon. That Stefan has _saved your life._That you owe him for eternity."

She sees him thinking this over, because that's _exactly_ what vampires do. She knows she's the only one who can ask him this type of question, and get an honest reply.

(She doesn't want to use him for her advantage.)

It's perhaps a whole five minutes later that he replies. She's almost forgotten she's asked him it, almost forgotten their short exchange of meaningless words.

"Thankful isn't something I normally am, Elena."

Her eyes widen a little bit, and she looks at him, just drinks and drinks him in, until the blue of his eyes have seemingly lost color and the spark is used up. She should be angry at him, should be angry at his answer, his lack of enthusiasm, but she can't bring herself to it.

(These days, she thinks she can never be angry with him.)

"But _are_you?" she says, and she's not sure whether that phrase should've been constructed 'but you are' or not, because either way, it would've made no difference.

"I almost died, Elena," he reminds her.

As if she'd forgotten.

In a weird, twisted, and completely _Damon_ way, it's his way of saying yes.

But it's resurrecting a conversation that never needed bothering. Because every time she thinks of him on that deathbed, her heart sinks a little deeper - she's falling a little more.

She thinks maybe, just _maybe,_they finally need to talk.

**Reviews are a writer's best friend.**

**Millie x**

**Millie x**


	2. Crumbling Like Pastries

**Thank you so much for your lovely reviews. You didn't have to wait long - here is chapter 2! This chapter is a sort of stepping stone for chapter 3 (which should be big) so there isn't too much going on in it.**

**Chapter title is from the song 'The A Team' by Ed Sheeran. It's heartbreaking - you guys should take a listen.**

**Well, love it or hate it, please drop me a review. Just a reminder: please do not favorite/story alert without reviewing! :)**

_Where do we go from here?_

_How do we carry on?_

_I can't get beyond these questions_

_Clambering for the scraps in the shatter of us collapsed_

_That cuts me with every could-have-been_

Wait It Out – Imogen Heap

There comes a night when she wishes it would all go away. Her heart aches, it aches and twists and beats out a tuneless melody – it cries Stefan's name and howls for the silhouette of his face. She's stuck in a trance – a vivid nightmare, a nightmare that she's fully in control of. She feels herself howl and shriek and yell and scream; she's running aimlessly through a seemingly endless field but she can feel her covers - she hogs them, she holds onto them like her heart is holding onto Stefan.

However, she's crying _his _name.

Jeremy's the first to walk in – his face is twisted and blurry; he's standing on air. He's saying something, something that's probably soothing, but her head is cloudy and her heart is displaced. He's saying 'shake up' or 'make up' or perhaps 'wake up', but to her, they all sound the same. Jeremy's shuffling uncomfortably – it's not long until she sees Alaric, a little clearer this time, his face a little bit more recognizable. He's holding something to his ear, babbling words down it, and she demands to know what he's doing, screaming pointless words until she feels her throat start to give out. Jeremy holds her, pats her - but she's shaking, shaking with every ounce of energy she has left.

(She knows she only needs one person with her right now.)

He's there in an instant. She's awake now (she thinks), a little bit more aware. She sees that her clothes are strewn on the floor, and all the makeup that lay on her dressing table lie scattered over the carpet. She's truly made a mess. After all that they've been through, she never would've thought that _Stefan _would be the one to break her, to do something so loving and so selfless but also so terrifying and ruthless.

She runs to _him_, runs to him because that's the only thing she can do. She clings to him, clings to him because that's the only thing that matters. She moans something about 'not being able to take it anymore', wetting his shirt in her salty tears. For the first time in weeks, she's undoubtedly scared, about what she's not sure of. He whispers things - things that are too sweet for her to taste, things that are too good for her to accept – into her hair, and he beckons her heartbeat to slow down, for her pulse to return to normal.

(She's always known that he's able to save her.)

He's still there when she wakes up. He's propped up on a stool in her bedroom, leafing through a book that looks all too familiar. She peeks around – the writing is handwritten, with hearts doodled around the corners and smileys drawn on in random places.

"That's my diary!" she exclaims, throwing off her covers. She scrambles over to him, clawing her way to her journal, attempting to snatch it out of his hands. He plays with her a little bit, using his undeniable strength to hold her back, to taunt her. She realizes that perhaps 'in the drawer' isn't the best hiding place in the world.

(She thinks they both realize how physically close they are to each other right now.)

"Good morning." His voice sounds like silk – the type of silk that's so precious that royalty keeps it in cabinets never to be used. She resigns a little bit, a smile creeping up on her face, a smile that she hasn't seen herself use in a long, long time.

"How much did you read?" she says. It's not really an accusation – it's just a lingering question, a remark of pure curiosity.

"Not much at all," he replies, pulling his pouty face. "Only to the bit where you and Matt went on that Ferrari ride and he broke up with you."

She breathes a sigh of relief, a sigh so deep that she surprises herself.

(If he had known what she writes about him in there, she would've been dead.)

"Don't you _dare_ do that again," she says, and she does half mean it.

Later on in the day, when all her friends have been over, demanding her to tell all about last night's situation, and when she's had enough hugs to last her another decade, does she hear the set of words that she's been pondering over for the past few weeks. The set of words that truly haunt her, haunt her to the bone but are so necessary that it _kills _her.

"Should we, like, look for him or something?"

She never thought that _Alaric_would be the one to say that. She takes a step back, a little bewildered. It's something she's been expecting _someone _to say, but everyone has kept quiet about it for so long that the possibility seems so far away. Damon snorts, like this is all a joke, that whatever just came out of Alaric's mouth is perhaps the most ludicrous question of the century.

"It's not a game of hide-and-seek, 'Ric."

She thanks Damon, thanks him with her eyes, thanks him because he's always the first one to reply, always the one who knows best.

"He _doesn't want to be found. _So we don't find him. It's dangerous, it's reckless and it's suicidal." His tone is dead serious, and she knows he means it, because he is only ever serious when he feels it is necessary. Everyone is silent, no one quite knowing what to make of the situation, no one quite knowing what to decide.

"It's for the best," Damon concludes.

She sees Stefan then, she imagines him on those rampages that both the brothers have told her about. She imagines his face, his utterly, utterly beautiful face, smeared in blood and his hands - his strong, sturdy hands that have held hers on so many occasions – ripping flesh and truly, truly enjoying it. She imagines Klaus, perhaps the only _thing_(he's not deserving of any other title) that she's ever told to 'go to hell', doing the exact same, but somehow, it's always easier to imagine that. She imagines them as a team. An unstoppable team. An all-powerful, terrifying team.

(A team of villains.)

What she says next is something that shocks her, that she's sure will shock anyone who will hear her say it.

"I don't think we should find him. Not now, anyway."

**Just an update: I have a draft of chapter 3 written out, so it'll be with you soon. Please bare with me, guys! Thanks so much for reading. :)**


	3. Reduced To Ashes And Wine

**Hey, guys! Finally, here it is, chapter 3 :) **

**I'm not too proud of this chapter, if I'm honest with you. I'll leave you with this thought: it isn't the best I've ever written. But I guess it's needed to carry the story on. **

**Please remember to not favorite without reviewing first! **

**Chapter title is from the artist 'A Fine Frenzy'. **

**I'll leave you guys to read now. :) **

_There's no use in crying,_

_All my tears won't drown my pain_

_Streaming from your sorrow,_

_I can't grieve you again_

Bury Me Alive – We Are The Fallen

Everyone goes by her orders. People know that right now she's so brittle, so easily manipulated, so delicately bruised that they silently obey. No questions are asked – only a few sneaky raised eyebrows are cast. Caroline doesn't pull her usual quizzical expression followed by a dainty sigh; Bonnie doesn't narrow her eyes like she does when she's surprised. Everyone leaves her in peace – they know it's for the best.

Except from Damon.

(This stubborn, dauntless, _beautiful_man can't seem to leave her alone.)

She's curled up on her bed, curled up in that usual position she has been taking for the last three weeks. She's so conflicted, so tired of all these flitting thoughts. She still doesn't understand how she has woven herself into this situation – this world where danger hides behind every counter, where there are these _wonderful_people who try and protect her but she can't seem to protect them. She doesn't know whether to blame fate or to blame herself.

"Elena?" The voice is all too familiar. It's still silky, silky as always, still almost too smooth and almost too comforting for her ears. She wants to tell him so badly that his voice is perhaps the most pleasant thing she has heard for ages. Instead, she goes for the easier option.

"What do you want, Damon?" She feigns a sigh, not knowing what else to do. A part of her wants to talk to him, to tell him how grateful she is, to tell him that he's only getting better every day. Another part of her wants to yell at him, to yell at him because he's unable to bring Stefan back, to yell at him because every time he's close to loveable he does something to fuck up, to fuck up so badly that she ends up loving it.

(She ends up almost loving _him._)

"Why did you do that, Elena?" he says this through clenched teeth, and she knows, she_knows_that it's so hard for him. It's so hard for him to love a woman like her, a woman so indecisive, unavailable and so damn _confused_about her feelings for him. She knows, and she's getting so tired of it.

('I love you. You should know that.' She yearns for him to say that just once more.)

"Why did you agree with me?" he continues. "Isn't that what you want, to find your Stefan? To be with him forever?"

"That's _not_what I want," she immediately replies. She bites her lip – she's just throwing things out there now. She inhales deeply, steadying herself.

"I mean," she rephrases, "I'm just not ready. I love him, but I don't know what I want. God, Damon, I _don't know what I want._"

(_From you,_she adds in her mind.)

"I want him back," she says weakly.

She reaches out to take his hand. Their skin touching is like a bold electric shock – the sparks fly out far, and it shocks her. She's sure it shocks both of them. It's truly a magical moment, a guilty, regretted magical moment.

"Damn it, Elena," he says softly. He clenches his fists; his whole body seems to tense up. She can tell that he's irritated – if that's something vampires feel.

"Decide," Damon says. "Decide how you feel. We're not going to let you sit here and mourn. _I'm_not going to allow it. Either accept that he's not coming back, or we start looking."

"Start looking?" she repeats his words, puzzled.

It's a while before Damon replies. His face twists into so many emotions, so many emotions that she once thought he was incapable of feeling. It's the most haunting, _alluring_thing ever.

(Perhaps he's just as human as her.)

"He's my baby brother," he chokes out weakly. His face is vulnerable. Too vulnerable.

"But you said it was a bad idea," she says.

"It is," he agrees. "But I'm made of bad ideas."

She considers this. It's true, but his bad ideas end up saving her life. His plans to defeat Klaus, his blood feeding – they had all been reckless and not thought through, but they did save her.

"I don't know," is all she can think of to say. It's all she can ever think of to say.

"Then _know!_" he bursts out. He holds on to her face, so harshly that it pains her. He grips it like it's his only stretch of humanity.

"I love him, Elena. Just as much as you do. Seeing him break you like this is _killing_me, you know?" She breaks free of his grip, and cups her head in her hands.

She feels defeated.

"But there's a limit," he says, trying desperately to be calm. "None of us know what you're thinking. He may be the love of your life or whatever, but _there is a limit._"

"He did this for you!" she exclaims, agitated. He still can't seem to acknowledge that the love of her _life_has risked everything to save his brother. That he's succumbed to his old ways, that he's succumbed to pure _evil._And it's all because of this man, standing right in front of her. Does he not understand that? Does he have no compassion at all?

(She knows the answer to that.)

"He did this for you, and you're telling _me_to decide. It's _your_fault, Damon, and you think you can take this out on _me_? I'm just his girlfriend. Am I not allowed to grieve? Do I have to become a no-emotion vampire just to be around you?"

She sees his face start to crumble. She can feel his insides turn to ash, his legs turn to jelly. She wants to slap him so badly, she wants to slap him hard for taking Stefan away from her, but she wants to just take him in her arms, to heal him of all the things Katherine has done to him, all the things that Katherine has made him become.

"Elena, I'm sorry." She notices the goodness in his eyes, and she realizes at that moment that he's irrevocably changed. She's never wanted him to; really, she's just wanted to remind him of who he once _was._But this man, this broken, lost man, who apologizes to her on countless occasions, who makes her heart melt with all the good deeds he does, who takes away her beloved with the swift movement of a hand – this man is all she has left. For now.

"I want you to be happy," he says. He is being so selfless, so baring that it scares her. It scares her because she doesn't think she's ready for this whole new good side of him, yet another one in the hundreds that she's seen.

"It's hard sometimes," he continues, "but I'll die trying."

She shakes her head furiously. _No._She won't let someone so precious like him give themself to her like this. She doesn't want him to be scared of displeasing her.

(Above all, she wants him to be happy, too.)

"Do you care about me, Elena?" he says quietly. It's more to himself, really, rather than to her.

She wants to gush about how much she _does_care about him, about how she'll, too, be happy if he is, about how deserving he is of her care. But she just nods feebly, the words stuck in her throat.

"I do."

The words are meek, thin, but they mean everything. At least she's finally baring _some_part of her soul to Damon. She doesn't know how much she's going to be able to keep to herself.

She wonders whether this conversation is going to be about Stefan any longer.

**Reviews would be lovely ;) **


	4. Confess And Regret

**I'm so sorry it's taken so long! I know, it's been almost a month...I've been crazy busy though. But anyways, here it is. **

**Hope you enjoy :) **

_Holding on just don't make sense_

_But the hardest part of letting go_

_Is tryin' to find a way_

_To let you know_

Jason Walker – Cry

They stand there for a while, not quite knowing what to say. There are unspoken phrases lingering about in the spaces between them, spurgling and splashing, but Elena chooses to ignore them, to push them back even further in her mind. She doesn't know what could happen if she lets them resurface.

(It could be wonderful, but then again, good comes paired with bad.)

"Of course I care about you," she adds hastily, to break the silence.

(_It's more than just that, _she adds in her mind.)

The heat of the room catches up with them, as if they can no longer run. It's the awkwardness, the discomfiture lurking in the gaps between her bedspreads that cuts her, that fills her with the burden of lack of words, of conversation. It's truly, truly puzzling because _he's _always the one who kills the silence. She's always been the one to enjoy it.

What's happened?

"I'm sorry," she suddenly pipes up. The utterance makes a ring in her throat, and she doesn't know whether it's the quiet of the room that makes the sound so audible, so _inappropriately _clear or whether it's the significance of those two single words. Either way, her guttural feeling tells her that that phrase has been the most vulnerable thing she's ever said to him.

She expects him to pull a quizzical expression, and ask her softly _why on earth _she would be apologizing. She expects him to softly stroke her hair, to kiss her forehead tenderly and tell her she has nothing to be sorry for.

But instead, he just stands there, glued to the spot.

"Yes?" he says gently.

His beckoning of her to carry on makes her take a step back. She's always known that he's able to surprise her – astonish her, even – but she's still not used to it. She's never going to be.

(Somehow, she thinks it's a good thing.)

"Well," she begins hesitatingly. There's too much to say, too much to confess, too much that she can't think of anything. _Why does he always make her feel like this?_

"I'm sorry that I've…been this way," she says. She's not sure what _this way _means, but she's sure that he understands what she's saying better than she understands it herself. She's sure that he knows that part of her that she's never quite discovered, that unexplored part which has been locked up all this time.

"I'm sorry that I've never thanked you enough for all you've done."

She pauses to just look at him, just look at him with just a little bit of pride, to wallow in the blue of his eyes, to study the lining of his face. It's like she's looking at him for the first time. She's never thought sorrow could play with her heart so much, squishing it and tossing it round like dough, like a lightweight marshmallow whirling in a pool of hot chocolate. She doesn't quite know what has triggered her to say all this, when just moments ago she was yelling at him, beating the hell out of him with her harsh-cut words and her spiteful remarks about his nature. She thinks that perhaps twirling in the midst of anger is a small gem of redemption, a small gem of togetherness. That perhaps with every hard-hearted comment comes a flicker of love. That perhaps the reason why she got so mad at him only seconds ago was because of her desire to want something more from him.

He's still silent.

"You deserve better than this," she continues. "I can never make it up to you. I can never give you what you want, what you deserve. I've been so selfish, so unfair to you."

She thinks about spitting 'you have lost me…forever' at him, only to wish she had never said it mere minutes later. She thinks about slapping him with her belief that he had just wasted her best friend's life only to find out that what he did was one of the most benevolent things someone _could _do. She thinks about running from him in one of those moments where he had just given his soul to her and he needed her most.

(_I will always choose you. _The words have never left her heart, not even for a solid day.)

She's never bared herself to anyone like this, though, not even Stefan. She thinks he ought to know, he _deserves _to know that every day, she's thankful that he's here. That she feels so much more comfortable and a little more _complete_ when he's by her side.

"There are things," she says, "things that you've done to me, to people I love –" she pauses for air, never expecting that a monologue like this would be so _tiring _to deliver, "that I can never quite forget. Things that make me hate you."

(Things that make her _want _to hate him.)

"But you're wonderful too," Elena breathes, and it's harmony to her ears, even coming out of her own mouth. It's harmony because it's pure truth – there's not a hint of regret, a hint of not knowing behind it.

He opens his mouth, and she imagines the thoughts running through his brain, the flow of letters up his throat ready to be released. But she breaks in first. She needs to finish this.

"You're wonderful in ways which," she ponders for a moment, selecting her words, rephrasing her train of thought, "I can't quite fathom."

She sees the tips of his mouth creep up into a smile, and at that moment a huge wave of joy washes through her, sweeps her off her feet, because that's the first hint of emotion she's seen from him since she's started talking.

"But the timing, Damon," she says. "The timing is always terrible, isn't it?"

It's a question more for herself.

She can't help but think of an alternate universe where no vampires trolled the earth; no werewolves howled in the pits of darkness, no weird hybrids (she's never gotten her head round to them) threatened to kill her loved ones. If he had appeared to her there, just the way he was, just _human, _would she have been able to resist him? If Stefan had never been in the equation, would she have been able to love Damon just as much?

"Anyway," she says, her voice wavering, "I'm done."

For the first time in his life, she thinks Damon Salvatore is completely devoid of words to say.

They stand there, again, for a moment, and they're back to where they started. But in a flash – well it seemed like it, anyway - she's in his arms, and she's wrapped in him, as tight as spaces will allow. He's the warm blanket she's become so accustomed to, the guilty pleasure that she'll always find solace in. At this moment, nothing else matters.

She thinks that she deserves peace at least _once. _

It's a while later, when the sun has gone down and the moon has taken residence, when the clouds have cleared and given way to the stars, when the trees have stopped swaying due to the lack of breeze, that her phone rings. Damon is still beside her – they've taken residence to the couch, now, their hands intertwined and their faces alight with a little more contentment.

When she picks up, the voice at the other end is undeniable.

It's silky, silvery and unquestionably _evil. _

"Why, hello," Klaus says.


End file.
